Drowning

Twenty Eight;

After the realisation of the reasoning behind Harry's hospitalisation, it was hard to keep him still, to keep him from killing his opponent, Hunnaway.

"You're very lucky they let you out so early," I say to a grumbling Harry. He was sprawled out on his sofa whilst I sat down beside him.

"Don't feel very lucky," he groans.

"I'm just saying, you're lucky to even be in your home right now. So, no, you're not allowed to go to the 'shop'." I sigh.

Harry had spent the past half an hour trying to convince me that the medication they gave him wasn't working, that he needed something else from the shops. But I knew that this wasn't the case. The mild drugs must have made him a little bit loopy, because typically Harry wouldn't take me for such a fool.

"You can go home, honestly." Harry says. "What time is it?"

"It's 3am," I sigh. "Nearly 4am."

"Shit," he mumbles. "I'm sorry,"

"Don't be," I smile. "I'm glad to be here with you,"

"But you can leave, if you want to-"

"Harry!" I laugh. "If you want to beat the shit out of him that badly, it can wait until you're not concussed!"

"Ugh!" he groans, letting out a sound of frustration. "Heads killing me."

"I bet it is," I say.

"I love you," he sighs. "I'm sorry,"

"I love you, too. Now, stop apologising," I say.

"No."

"Yes." I smile.

"Zahara?" he says.

"Yeah?"

"I feel sick," he pouts. I scrunch my nose up.

"Like, you're going to throw up, or?"

"Maybe," he sighs, sitting himself up slightly on the sofa. "Say something to me, in Arabic."

"No," I chuckle, shaking my head. "I'm no good-"

"I heard you speak it to your dad a while ago," he says. "You sounded so pretty,"

"Hm," I ponder.

"Please? It's my dying wish," he says, giving me a halfhearted cheeky grin.

I roll my eyes before calling him a nightmare in Arabic, to which he smiled childishly, contently.

"I like that. What did you say? Something mean, I'm sure." he smiles, his eyes heavy and his skin paler than usual.

"I just said you were handsome, of course." I tease.

"I'd call you out if I didn't need to throw up," Harry groans, standing himself up from the sofa and treading off the bathroom. I followed behind him, but he slammed the door closed.

The sounds of vomit were audible even through the door, followed by sounds of Harry grunting and whining.

"I hate him," Harry says, his voice muffled through the door.

"Me too," I say.

I couldn't understand still why Hunnaway would do such a thing. Sure, he was jealous and malicious, and clearly stories Harry had heard about him were true, but what was the point? He, ultimately, gained nothing from doing this. It was ridiculous. And now, Harry was unwell and I hated to see him that way. Hated to know that he felt that way.